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THREE SEASONS' FLOWERS 








SEASONS' 
FLOWERS 



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By Alfred Lambourne 










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THREE SEASONS' FLOWERS 

I. 

|EHOLD, how spring doth ope 
the lilac buds! 
And oh, for words that choice 

and dainty be 
To tell how memory each 
moment floods, 
Of vanished dreams their fragrance brings 

to me! 
What words shall their exquisiteness 

suggest, 
The blanched edge, the flush within the cell, 
A hidden glow like vermil hues that rest 
Deep in the cold heart of a tropic shell ? 
These leaves take on the fire of pink and 

white, 
That marks the advent of the eastern ray, 
And this they hold with chilliness unite. 
Quenched in cold azure of the showery 

day. 
No line hath power to utter my delight, 
As here I rest beneath the blossomed 
spray ! 




II 



|AN, after all, that legend be a 
truth — 
That mystic spring whereof 

men long to drink, 
Whose waters hold the gift of 
lasting youth, 
And mortal flesh with joys immortal link ? 
The inner life doth with this essence wake; 
A youth perpetual the lilacs bring; 
My thirst of soul therein, I eager slake, 
And draw a subtle virtue from the spring! 
Here, childlike innocence and passion 

blend; 
The rapture of the May, all fragrant 

sleeps; 
For fond hope lost and trust, they make 

amend. 
As through the heart life's springtime once 

more sweeps; 
This bloom hath treasure brought me 

without end, 
A calm doth give to manhood's stormy 
deeps. 






III. 

ITH moisture strange, the 

lilacs fill mine eyes, 
A gladsome dew that gathers 

into tears; 
Entranced I stand, lost in a 
sweet surprise, 
While joys divine come back from out the 

years. 
Some purpose was there in the pregnant 

past — 
The cause of transports sent unto our time? 
These lilacs seem as from a garden cast. 
Which flourished once within the happy 

prime. 
A sweet ingenuousness these blossoms 

hold, 
Which they unto that primal purpose owe; 
Secrete there dwells amid each leafy fold, 
The golden age that antedated woe. 
This scented bloom rebreathes the troths 

were told — 
The artless life of some sweet long ago. 




IV 



[GAIN with spring the lilac 
doth not fail, 
The Lord of Day makes glad 

his wide demesne, 
Sweet Hesperides night's 
deeps of ether sail, 
The far-stretched valleys melt in lucious 

green. 
And high above the mountains' shining 

snow, 
The silver clouds up-build their massive 

towers. 
I watch the scented clusters open slow, 
And feel myself once more in fairy bowers. 
Awake! and yet so soon thou art be- 
trayed, — 
Ere one can count, the occult virtue dies ! 
And then, how quick my irised visions 

fade. 
My dreamland palace, all in ruin lies ! 
With you, O lilacs, I have backward 

strayed 
To May of youth and April-weeping skies. 




V. 



H E roses snap asunder mat- 
ter's chain, 
And leave the soul to wander 

free the while, 
Where art and nature hold 
an equal reign — 
On templed rocks of far JEge3,n isle, 
By dim Euphrates and old Egypt's 

stream — 
And with all poets their emotions share, 
With Omar, Orpheus, and Sappho, dream 
What splendid is and passionate and fair. 
Oh, now I list the sirens singing clear, 
Beyond Pelorus and Tyrrhenian sea; 
Shrill laughter of the green -haired mer- 
maids hear; 
The dark-eyed Persian maidens well nigh 

see. 
Where all the vales are crimson far and 

near, 
Scattering flowers at the Gul Reazee. 




VI. 

lOSE-PURPLE are the moun- 
tain peaks by day, 
'Neath cloudless skies, all 

purple-brown by night; 
And when the rising moon 
begins her sway, 
A hush profound falls over vale and 

height. 
Upon the roses' splendor let me gloat, 
Or on fond lips now waste my heart in 

sighs; 
Love's fulness throbs and bubbles at the 

throat. 
The sweets of life are mine in richest guise. 
What more could heart or soul from na- 
ture claim. 
Now that no canker eats away love's 

health ? 
Love has no purpose, leaves all other aim, 
Than this, to gather up the offered wealth: 
The roses' bounty I tell o'er, the same 
As greedy misers count their gold, in 
stealth. 




VII. 

|F LOVE triumphant — love's 
delightful pain, 
Behold the rose, a symbol 

and a sign ! 
Let no rough hand, with 
vandal touch, profane 
The flower whose beauty makes its life 

divine. 
O, to the passion that within it burns, 
This grace, these hues of damask witness 

bear. 
So, too, this boon of outward semblance 

turns 
To ravishment the ache of old despair. 
In this full time, this hey-day of the year, 
My soul, en rapport with the fairness 

wrought. 
Goes with all joy upon its swift career 
To find itself to this one lesson brought — 
Here with the queenly rose, I gird the 

sphere. 
All earth possess, in luxury of thought. 




VIII, 

H E rose ! the rose ! Ah, let 

me clasp the rose! 
A witness she that beauty is 

eterne. 
O, my heart's tumult here can 
find repose; 
Here in content, the soul may cease to 

yearn. 
From love's excess, the poet now must 

sing— 
A voice must find unto his noble rage; 
O, to the rose my vassal love I bring, 
Ah, may she live for once upon my page ! 
The rose ! the rose ! O, now the rose is 

queen — 
Love and the roses animate my line! 
O, love's own flower, as o'er the rose I 

lean. 
Makes drunk the senses and this heart of 

mine; 
The rose! the rose! O yes, the rose 

serene 
Intoxicates with beauty as with wine ! 




IX 



|H, NOW is taught the wisest 
of all lore, 
And like this Lovers' Month, 

the roses glow, 
Enamored youth upon each 
other pore, 
And love's sweet tale in words impas- 
sioned flow. 
To thousand hearts the bridal hymn is 

sung. 
Conjugal vows are made in whispered tone; 
The rose, the rose, as wedding bells are 

swung, 
All thought makes fervid as the burning 

zone. 
Sun-flushed or tear'd with dew, the petals 

gleam 
By lustrous day, or in night's tranced 

noon; 
With honied wealth of life, the moments 

teem. 
And heart to heart melts in delicious 

swoon. 
Can aught of fear or strife disturb love's 

dream. 
Made perfect by the roses— gift of June? 




X. 



H, PEERLESS is the beauty 

of the rose ! 
Within its heart, a magic deep 

there hides; 
But love to love its riches 
will disclose, 
And I have learned the secret there abides. 
The roses take me to nymph-haunted 

founts. 
Where'er this golden summer moon now 

shines; 
Dodonas' woods, and purple classic 

mounts, 
Astarte's, Venus', Isis,' broken shrines. 
To Athens, Thebes, lost Baylon, and Tyre; 
Where sings the bulbul and where moans 

the dove; 
Where still the temple tells of fond desire; 
Where fanes are grassed, or where sands 

drift above; 
All places where hath burned the heavenly 

fire. 
Where men have dreamed of beauty and 
of love! 




XI 



[OUCHED by a pale light from 
the autumn sun, 
The massed chrysanthemums 

droop by the path, 
Calm, serious flowers that 
mad passion shun, 
And life begin now others ended hath. 
To me they seem like to a pensive child. 
As one given those whose heads are 

touched with gray; 
Like this wan season, they are tame and 

mild, 
Though they be decked in colors bright 

and gay. 
In harmony they come with this dim morn, 
When wrapt in chilly mist all nature 

grieves. 
As she would fall asleep all labor-worn, 
A sigh the universal mother heaves, 
Delivers to the year her latest born. 
Nipt by the hoar-frost, hid by drifting 
leaves. 



XII. 




YES, November's children 

are these flowers, 
And they the vernal joys can 

never know; 
In listless apathy they pass 
the hours. 

And see the garden aged and faded grow. 
Yes, they are symbols of these days and 

nights. 
An evolution fitting heavy time. 
Of this dark month, all empty of delights, 
Whose humor sullen saddens every rhyme. 
Now slow the northern clouds invade the 

sky. 
And shadows thick, the garden overspread, 
But here the tardy blossoms meet the eye, 
A senile brightness 'gainst the hues of 

lead; 
The moaning wind proclaims the winter 

nigh. 
Tells that the year will soon be cold and 
dead. 



XIII 




WITH thy coming, light and 

cheer depart, 
Cold bloom of sadness, au- 
tumn's last of flowers. 
To rueful days thy life is set 
apart 
When o'er decrepitude a wild sky lowers. 
I see thy lissome petals that unclose 
To see the sun behind a thickened veil. 
Thou diest soon, for lo! the whirling snows, 
The ruthless archer's shafts of sleet and 

hail! 
Yet pass, though on thy death pale dole 

attends, 
The changed time is vocal with lament; 
Not thou alone must go, here quickly ends 
That mood whose loss the year makes in- 
digent. 
O'er thee, sad flower, the winged storm 

impends, 
And the short season of thy life is spent. 






XIV. 

|HY wait so long the staid 
chrysanthemums, 
To slow expand, nor at their 

lot repine ? 
Why wait they until the time 
of faintness comes. 
And wan and pale the stars autumnal shine? 
How can these stricken plants refuse to 

yield 
Their sober beauty to the summer's blaze, 
Keep pain's existence in the bud concealed, 
And languid smile as swift the year decays? 
Strange lives that come to make a round 

complete; 
Blossom and flower surviving numberless; 
'Tis but a world all pallid now they greet, 
Companionship to keep with weariness: 
Therein we see the end to passion's heat, 
The calm that follows life's fierce toil and 
stress. 



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